


So Runs the World Away

by Nos4a2no9



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Recovery Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 11:30:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15629802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nos4a2no9/pseuds/Nos4a2no9
Summary: Bucky and Steve reconnect in Wakanda, and Bucky learns something new.A post-Black Panther, pre-Infinity War story in which there is sex, heartfelt confessions, and a few manful tears.





	So Runs the World Away

**Author's Note:**

> Implied rape/non-con, past reference only. Nothing detailed in the story.

So Runs the World Away

Black clouds were massing above the green void of the jungle canopy, and the faint rumble of thunder was getting louder. From his vantage point on the screened-in veranda, Bucky couldn't see so much as a leaf stir. The birds had gone silent, and all the other jungle creatures had crawled, swung, or slithered back to the safety of their dens. Nature herself seemed to be holding her breath, waiting for the storm to break.

Bucky liked to watch the rains come in. The official start of monsoon season was still a couple of weeks away, according to Shuri, but they'd already been hit with a couple of doozys. Every time the skies turned black and the rains threatened, Bucky felt drawn out to the veranda where he could sit, and smoke, and watch the water pour down. 

He liked the rain. Liked the thunder, too. The noise reminded him of EL clattering past their little apartment in Park Slope before the war. Even the lightning made him think of the electric glow of Manhattan across the East River. He'd had a good view of the city from his bedroom window when he'd been a boy. For the first ten years of his life, the bright lights of New York City had eased Bucky to sleep. It was hard to drift off now, in the quiet and dark of the jungle. But the storms helped.

He heard the patio door slide open behind him. "Hey, Buck? You okay?"

Bucky took one last puff on his cigarette. The damn things were hard to come by here in health-conscience Wakanada. He stubbed it out in a dented kidney-shaped bowl he'd liberated from the medical wing. 

"Yeah," he said, voice gone raspy from the smoke. He stood and turned, already anticipating the worried frown on Steve's face. "Y'know, if you keep looking so sour your face is gonna stick that way," Bucky said. He offered Steve his best approximation of his old devil-may-care grin, the one that had driven all the girls in their old neighborhood (and a few of the boys) crazy.

Steve rolled his eyes and caught at Bucky's hand, drawing him in close for a kiss that made Bucky's toes curl. Steve's mouth was positively _filthy_. 

There was no reason on God's green earth why Captain America should be able to kiss like that. He was a virgin - that much Bucky knew. Or had been, before they'd started up together.

He nibbled at Steve's lower lip and, when Steve grunted in protest, let go and licked at the tender spot in apology. He trailed one hand up the beautifully muscled curves of Steve's ass to pull him closer. He was disappointed to find that Steve had put on a pair of boxers. 

Their private balcony on the sixteenth floor of a palace in the middle of a jungle counted as 'public', according to Steve. So he always made sure his interesting bits were covered up. Bucky himself was naked as a jaybird. His bare dick was already making a wet spot against the pristine fabric covering Steve's crotch.

"You gonna fuck me, Cap?" he murmured against Steve's ear. Steve hummed back at him, already firm and growing harder.

Bucky sometimes wished that Steve's language was as filthy as his kisses. Steve was still too much of a choirboy to actually talk about what they did together, or what he wanted to do to Bucky. The most Bucky could coax out of him was an occasional 'Ahh' or 'Don't stop!' 

But Bucky was wearing him down.

"Yeah, Buck, I will," he said, his voice a hot puff of air against Bucky's neck. "I will." 

Bucky resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was filthy-mouthed enough for the both of them, anyway.

"Then sit the fuck down," Bucky ordered. He twisted them around in a parody of a dance until he'd maneuvered Steve in front of the bench where Bucky had been sitting to smoke and watch the storm. It was mahogany, or teak, or some other fancy tropical hardwood that grew only in Wakanda. He knew it was sturdy enough for two supersoldiers, which was all he cared about at the moment.

Steve accepted Bucky's order without protest and sank down, knees splayed wide. Bucky insinuated himself in the V of Steve's thick thighs and brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead. Steve kept it longer now, and had dyed it brown to match his dark full beard. Bucky couldn't resist bending forward to kiss him. 

It been the beard that'd finally convinced Bucky he wasn't hallucinating when he'd come out of cryo that the last time. It'd all been too...nice. No one had hit him with a stun baton, or hosed him down with icy water from a high-pressure hose. Instead he'd come out of his cryo-coma to find Steve waiting for him in a warm, dim, comfortable room. 

Steve had wrapped him up in a blanket and held him, and murmured nonsense until Bucky's brain had come back online. He'd thought he’d been dreaming it all. He'd had fantasies about coming out of cryo like this, before. But those dream-wishes weren’t more specific than the Winter Soldier's desperate longing for touch that didn't hurt. So it could have been a hallucination. But then Bucky’d realized Steve had a beard. He had no reference point for such a thing, no ready mental image that HYDRA could have manipulated to fool him. Steve hadn’t even been able to grow facial hair before 1942.

He'd known as soon as he'd seen Steve's beard that he was safe. That Steve was real. And that he could believe it when Steve said that it was 2018, that Bucky'd been in cryo for six months while they figured out a way to get HYDRA's conditioning out of his head. That T'Challa's sister Shuri had figured out a way to help, and that he had a place, if he wanted one, here in Wakanda.

It was easy, now, to close the distance and meet Steve's mouth in a hard, claiming kiss. When he drew back Steve's lips were shiny and puffed up. Used. The sight made Bucky's cock throb. He drew his thumb across Steve's swollen mouth, watching the rapid rise-and-fall of Steve's chest, the glimmer of sweat liming his bare shoulders. "Fuck, but don't you make a picture," he whispered, bending to lick and suck at Steve's mouth. 

Steve moaned against him and his hands drifted to Bucky's hips, resting there for a moment. But Bucky batted him away. He focused on ignoring the low flicker of fear that would put the whole operation in jeopardy. 

Instead of giving into the spike of anxiety, he shifted around until he'd gotten his one good hand between them. He pushed Steve back to lie down against the bench.

"Buck? What're you--?"

"Hush now, doll," Bucky said, enjoying the view of Steve lying prone beneath him, that beautiful science-carved body on full display. "I'm going to take care of you." 

He slid his fingers beneath the elastic waistband and worked the boxers down over Steve's hips. "I'm going to slide right on down over that big, beautiful cock of yours. Let you fill me up." 

He'd gotten Steve's boxers off, and on his way back up he licked at the head of Steve's cock for good measure. Steve jumped like he'd been zapped with an electric current. He stared up at Bucky with his chest heaving and pupils blown wide. Bucky grinned his devil's grin and licked at the tip again, watching with pleasure as Steve threw his head back and moaned.

They'd only done this a handful of times. A few stolen moments here and there, whenever Steve had a few hours to spare between missions. He’d jet back to Wakanda, straight to Bucky. And then leave again. 

It'd happened enough so that Steve understood the rules. Steve hadn't asked, but he'd never once touched Bucky since that very first time when Bucky'd bent down to suck him and Steve had tried to tangle his fingers in Bucky's hair. Bucky had frozen at first, and then jumped up and backed away, shaking. Steve had lowered his hands to his sides, and kept them there ever since. 

Now, every time they did this, Steve knew to just lay back and enjoy the ride. Instead of going for Bucky's hair, he'd twist his fingers in the bedsheets, or the grass, or the sand, or whatever else was available when Bucky felt like blowing him. Steve was good, like that. 

Smart enough not to ask any questions. And kind enough not to wonder why.

It felt so good, to be able to do this for Steve--to give this to Steve--and not have to worry. He wasn't going to be held down, forced to swallow back until he choked, or throat-fucked until he couldn't speak or breathe. He knew that this would be gentle and safe. Hell, he could hold Steve's penis in his mouth all night until it went soft, and not do a single other thing. It was all on his terms, at his pace, and Steve was willing to indulge him. 

It was one of the many reasons he loved Steve Rogers.

But Bucky didn't want gentle or simple tonight. Tonight he wanted exactly what he'd said: he wanted to get fucked. And so he gave the tip of Steve's cock one last parting lick, and shimmied back up until he was kneeling over Steve's hips. He paused for a moment as a stroke of lightning lit up the night sky and illuminated Steve's perfect body. He was goddamned beautiful.

"I'm gonna ride you now. You want that? You wanna fill me up, doll?"

Steve nodded, and then looked up at him, eyebrows raised in question.

That was one of the other things he loved about Steve. Steve knew, without being told, that he needed to check in with Bucky sometimes. Make sure they were on the same page.

And they always were. The surety of it still caught Bucky by surprise. He'd lost so many of his old touchstones over the years, to pain and time and the agonizing burn of HYDRA's machines. But this one he'd managed to hang on to: trust. Trust in Steve. Trust that he'd take care of Bucky.

Bucky kneed up and balanced for a moment. He felt around behind him until he caught the thick, hot rod of Steve's erection in his flesh hand. He dragged it up the crack of his ass. When the dripping head of Steve's cock found the ring of his hole they both broke out into groans. It wasn't much in terms of slick, but then he hardly needed it. He was still loose from their last round a few hours ago, and anyway he liked it when it hurt a little. That initial burn made it feel more real. Made him know, without a doubt, that it was Steve inside him. And no one else.

He reared up, checked to make sure Steve was lined up right, and then settled back down on his haunches. Gravity did the rest. Steve's cock eased up inside him in achingly slow increments. He could feel every inch it and Bucky threw back his head back, lost to the sensation. Endorphins were flooding his system now, feeding the twin fires of pain and pleasure. Bucky didn't bother to bite back a low, animal groan. 

Steve held himself still, hands at his side like always. Bucky could feel the barest brush of the back of Steve's knuckles against his knees if he concentrated on it. But it wasn't enough to jumpstart the old drumbeat of panic in his chest. 

He kept his eyes closed and focused on the sensation of Steve's cock pushing up into him. In another few seconds he was fully seated. Bucky shifted his weight forward until he crouched over Steve's chest. He put his hand on Steve's right pectoral to help himself balance, and then he started to move.

The lightning flashed again, and four seconds later the thunder rumbled. The storm was getting closer.

He thrust up and slid down on Steve's cock, making them both moan in unison when he bottomed out. "Fuck, Stevie," Bucky huffed. He winced in pleasure-pain as he worked himself up on Steve's shaft and plunged down hard again. 

The resulting buzz of bliss that went through him made reality go a little fuzzy at the edges. He forced himself to look down at Steve, whose handsome face was flushed in ecstasy. He kept his eyes shut tight, dark full lashes brushing those high cheekbones hidden by the beard. His pink lips were framed in a perfect 'O' of a mouth. 

"Fuck, doll, you're perfect, you're so perfect," Bucky babbled. The heel of his hand was pushing into the dip between the swell of Steve's pecs. "You're splitting me open, sweetheart. You're splitting me wide open. Christ and all the angels," he huffed. 

He'd caught the rhythm now, up and down, and Steve was thrusting up too, giving him a little more to work with. They moved together fluidly, just like they did on the battlefield. Steve was anticipating him in each long, slow slide up, each brutal thrust down. Their hips snapped together and pulled apart like elastic bands, tension drawing them away and then bringing them close in a sharp starburst of pleasure so bright Bucky felt blinded by it. Or maybe it was the lightning. 

The storm was right over the palace now. Bucky could hear the howling of the wind and the drum of rain against the glassed-in veranda. Strobes of lightning flashed a second before the echoing snap-crackle-roar of the thunder. 

He saw himself as Steve must: flashes of pale skin glinting in the dark, his hair damp with sweat, limp strands falling around his winter-pale face to hide his eyes. The stump of his left arm was twitching and jerking in abortive movements. As if it was trying to reach out to Steve and touch him with phantom fingers.

He must look like a wild thing, some apparition out of a folktale. A mangled ghoul settled atop a perfect golden prince. A carved-up death spirit feeding from the bright light of a sun god.

A blasphemy. An abomination. 

Bucky closed his eyes against the image. 

His thighs were burning with the effort of riding to orgasm. Most of his not-inconsiderable weight rested on Steve's chest as he snapped his hips back and down, driving Steve's cock up deeper inside of him. Every drag of Steve's cockhead hit Bucky in the sweet spot that made the world flash dark-bright. He sobbed soundlessly, body quaking, every muscle straining in pursuit of pleasure.

Perspiration beaded on his nose. Bucky opened his eyes in time to watch the droplets fall and splash down on the perfect curves of Steve's chest. He chased the sweat with his mouth, lapping it up from Steve's skin and sucking dark kisses into his neck and chest to mark where the drops had fallen. Steve's hands, still kept obediently at his sides, started to shake.

For a moment he wished that Steve could touch him. That he could allow himself to be touched. Steve's big warm hands could grip his hips and pull him down, hold him steady. Ground him. 

But Bucky couldn't bear even the thought of it, and so he drove himself forward, his movements ragged now. Frantic. Then he felt the first telltale twitch of Steve's approaching orgasm.

He reared back and went still, bracing for the powerful thrust of Steve's hips as he shouted out Bucky's name and came. He felt the hot splash of Steve's seed deep within him. Felt Steve's body go rigid, every muscle taunt and banded like iron. Steve let out a low, guttural groan as the lightning flashed again.

Bucky reached down and grabbed his own dick, just as hard and leaking as it'd been from the start. He finished himself off in three quick jerks, and he made himself look down at Steve as he did it, as his come jetted out to coat Steve's chest. Steve kept his eyes closed, breathing ragged. Finally he relaxed the hard arch of his back and sank down to lie flat on the bench. Bucky stayed braced above him. 

"Christ, Buck," Steve chuckled. 

Bucky gathered the sweaty strands of his hair up off his neck and held still for a moment, gasping for air. "Don't you take the Lord's name in vain," he huffed out, and felt Steve's answering laugh rumble up through his whole body from where they were still joined.

"Right. The both of us being such good Catholics," Steve said, which earned him a stinging smack on his shoulder. "Ow."

"Don't you go impugning my faith, Rogers," Bucky said. He winced a little as he sat up and pulled himself off Steve's softening erection. "I made altar boy six months before you did, you punk."

"Jerk," Steve muttered automatically. He'd thrown one big arm over his eyes. Bucky allowed himself a moment to admire the ripple of his bicep, the damp secret of his armpit. 

Bucky had an odd impulse to bury his nose there. Breathe Steve in, all of his musky, undeniably male scent, and then keep his face buried there in the curly-haired humid warmth for as long as he could. But he knew Steve was ticklish in his armpit. And anyway, it was probably a weird thing to want to do.

Not that there was much normal about him to begin with. But the pretense was important. 

"I'm going to look like a barber pole," Steve groused. And yeah, Bucky thought he was probably right. They'd just fucked on a mahogany/teak/pricey hardwood slatted bench. More than 400lbs of supersoldier bearing down on the tender flesh of Steve's perfect ass and back. He’d be striped black and blue. But then bruises wouldn't last more than a few minutes.

"Should we take a picture?" Bucky suggested. "I bet we could raise a few eyebrows with that one."

This time it was Bucky who received a lazy smack. An uncoordinated one, too. Steve was always clumsy and dozy after sex. Bucky figured they had maybe another couple of minutes to move back to bed and get cleaned up before Steve would be flat on his back and snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

"Not in this lifetime, pal." Steve yawned, and Bucky did roll his eyes this time. 

He got to his feet and tugged at Steve's hand. Steve allowed himself to be tugged up to a standing position, and then looped his arms over Bucky's shoulders. He even went so far as to drop a little kiss on the tip of Bucky's nose. They both knew it was safe, now, for Steve to touch. 

"What was that for?" 

Steve shrugged. "I'm happy. That's all." He said it with the bright little-boy grin Bucky remembered from childhood. Like Steve thought he'd gotten away with something and couldn't quite believe it.

"Sure you are," Bucky said, humoring him. But he gave Steve a quick buss on the cheek before he could think better of it. That was as far as he could go. The answering response, _So am I_ or _I love you too_ dammed up in his throat. Bucky was happy, or at least as close to it as he would probably ever get. He loved Steve. He just...couldn’t say it. That felt far too much like tempting fate. And fate had been so cruel to them both.

Steve, bless his oversized heart, didn't react to Bucky's hesitancy. He yawned comically wide again, showing no trace of hurt, and the moment was over. "Sorry," Steve said, covering his mouth with one hand. "Guess I'm pretty beat."

"Guess so," Bucky agreed, sliding the door back on its track so they could step through and into the apartment. 

Steve's suite of guestrooms in the palace was nice in the same way an expensive hotel room was nice: clean, bland, and painfully generic. There was an expensive sofa and a flat-screen television in the living room, and a fancy kitchen with shiny modern appliances. The bedroom featured an enormous king-sized bed that came dangerously close to convincing Bucky there really was a God in heaven. Say what you would about T'Challa, but the King didn't skimp out on the amenities. 

Bucky felt a little pang for his tiny farmhouse in south Wakanda, out where the herding plains stretched wide and endless under the blue African skies. Whenever Steve had a minute to spare from his global do-gooding, he'd send a message to Bucky: _Birnin Zana_. And Bucky'd rush to meet him at the royal palace in the capital so they could roll around in bed for a couple of hours before Steve had to leave again. Saying goodbye hurt every damn time.

But Bucky was done being a soldier. He couldn't do it anymore, not even for Steve. So he'd go back to his little farm and lonely narrow bed, and wait for another message.

It'd worked, so far, or at least as much as anything did in this crazy Tomorrowland. If someone had told J. B. Barnes back in 1941 that someday he'd be farming goats in Africa and fucking Captain America on the sly, he'd have laughed his goddamned ass off. 

But that James Barnes was long gone. Dead and buried ages ago at the bottom of a ravine in the Swiss Alps. Bucky wasn't exactly proud of what had crawled out on the other side of that icy grave. But he was here now, with Steve. That counted for a lot.

They'd reached the bedroom, and Steve went straight into the en suite. He flicked on the bathroom light and Bucky caught Steve's reflection in the mirror. Steve was smiling, dopey and self-satisfied. He wet a washcloth and set to work scrubbing come off his chest and belly. Bucky leaned up against the bathroom doorway, watching Steve and enjoying the show.

Because that invisible redline clock was ticking away, the one that said Steve would have to leave by noon, by dusk, by sunrise, by Thursday, Bucky pulled up a lazy, flirtatious smile. 

"Come take a shower with me?" he invited.

Steve raised his eyebrows, clearly thinking he'd be crazy to refuse an offer like that. 

Bucky went to the shower and turned on the water. He set the faucet to the hottest setting possible. Almost four years clear of HYDRA, and he still couldn't bear the idea of showering in cold water. 

He kept his eyes averted, trying not to leer at Steve's body or risk glancing down at his own. He knew exactly what he looked like: pale and scarred, body marred by HYDRA's barbarity and his own violent past. Shuri and the Wakandan surgeons had done their best, but they couldn't help the scarring around the socket where his metal arm had been attached, or the stump itself. It was awful to look at. Bucky kept it covered as much as he could. The truth was, he was a perversion, especially in contrast to Steve's perfect body.

And Steve was the living embodiment of perfection. For a moment, he forgot the ugliness of his own body in favor of drinking Steve's in. He was mouth-watering. Broad shoulders thick with muscle narrowing down to impossibly slim hips and the most beautiful cock Bucky had ever seen. Long and thick and perfectly-formed, just like the rest of him. Bucky watched in fascination as Steve grew hard under Bucky's scrutiny, erection filling to jut out from his body, flushed red and already leaking at the tip. Bucky swallowed dryly. 

God, but he wanted him.

"C'mon, we're wasting water," he said roughly, stepping into the shower. Steve followed close behind. 

T'Challa didn't skimp on showers, either. The stall was almost as big as their whole apartment had been back in the '40s. It even had one of those fancy rainwater showerheads that was the size of a dinner plate.

Bucky turned and grabbed for the soap, slicking up the bar until it foamed white. Steve surprised him by reaching out to take the soap. He was even more surprised when Steve lifted his hands in a clear question.

"Can I... Can I wash you?" he asked, wearing that familiar look of determination. But it was tempered with a sweet vulnerability that reminded Bucky that Steve had no map for this. He was fumbling around in the dark, determined to reach out for Bucky but unsure how to do it. 

"Yeah," Bucky said hoarsely, turning to wet his body under the shower's spray. "Just, uh. Go slow."

Steve nodded, taking the request to heart. He placed one grounding hand on Bucky's flesh shoulder, keeping his touch light and easy. Bucky's eyes fluttered shut. It felt so good. Solid. Real. He wanted more. 

He nodded, and Steve started to massage his skin with the soap. He kept his movements economical but unhurried. He washed Bucky's shoulder and down his real arm, and then moved his hands over Bucky's chest. Bucky's breathing picked up a little. He knew Steve was still hard, and it was obvious Steve was enjoying this unexpected permission to touch. He explored the hard swell of the muscles of Bucky's chest, dipping lower to skim over his abdomen. But he stopped there, and checked Bucky's face.

Smart enough to check in, and kind enough to not ask why it was necessary.

"S'okay," Bucky said, a bit drunk on all the contact. It felt so good: the warm, steady weight of Steve's hands, those small stroking movements he did with his thumbs. He wasn't thinking about anything except the pleasure of Steve's touch.

Steve returned his hands to Bucky's shoulder, massaging at his neck and finding the knots there. Bucky couldn't help closing his eyes, mouth falling open in a soft moan of relief. Steve's fingertips skimmed the ridge of heavy scar tissue just above the amputated end of Bucky's arm, and he paused for a moment. Bucky nodded with a shaky breath. He could do it. He could allow Steve this.

Steve rinsed the soap off his fingers and explored the stump. He lifted the end gently, curious about the way the skin had been wrapped around the end of the joint to cover the bone and sutured closed in a ragged line of scarring.

"Does it--"

"No, it doesn't hurt." The metal arm had, but he wasn’t about to get into the details about The Arm. It was gone, torn away and probably gathering dust in one of Tony Stark's labs. Like Steve's shield. 

All things went back to their maker, after all. And he knew, even if Tony didn't, exactly who had designed his arm.

"I'm lighter without it," Bucky said. He couldn't tell Steve anything else. He knew Steve wondered why Bucky hadn't asked for a replacement prosthetic. Farming and herding were difficult chores for a one-armed man. But Bucky knew all too well what getting a replacement would mean, however well-intentioned. He was never going to be a weapon. Not ever again.

Steve quirked his lips and looked up to meet Bucky's eyes. "You're the bravest man I know, Buck," he said, cupping his shoulder gently.

Bucky tried to smile. He knew Steve meant it. Even if it wasn't true, it was a lie Bucky could live with.

Steve let go of him and resumed washing his body. He turned Bucky around with a nudge and washed his back. Bucky couldn't help but let go of another embarrassingly-loud groan when Steve massaged his shoulders. Steve kept kneading at the tense muscles until Bucky went boneless. He went so far as to lean his forehead against the cool shower wall, giving Steve full access to the top of his shoulders and upper spine. Steve even massaged the back of his head, and Bucky nuzzled back into his touch like a big cat.

"Fuck, Stevie, that feels so good," he mumbled.

Steve _hmmm_ 'd at him, and stepped back to pump some shampoo into his hand. He guided Bucky around and back under the spray to wet his hair. When Steve touched his chin, Bucky opened his eyes. He cupped Bucky's face for a moment, held his gaze, and then leaned in to kiss him. 

It wasn't a particularly sexual kiss, even though they were both wet and naked. Bucky could still feel Steve's affection for him there, in the warm press of his mouth. Then he released him and slid his fingers up into Bucky's hair, massaging shampoo into his scalp.

Bucky melted in his arms. 

They'd never touched him there. The only time any of the techs had touched his head was when they had to raise or lower the apparatus that sent an electrical current straight to his brain. No one had scrubbed at his scalp. When they'd wanted to clean him, they'd simply hosed him down. To feel someone else's gentle hands in his hair, to know that it was _Steve_ and by definition was safe, made his eyes sting. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Steve wouldn't see how this was affecting him. It might make him stop. 

Steve kept stroking the sides and top of Bucky's scalp, and finally ran his big thumbs in circles against Bucky's temples. He felt his near-constant headache ease. When Steve ran his fingers behind his ears and then down to rub at the base of his skull, he couldn't help but shiver. 

"Where'd you learn this trick, sweetheart?" Bucky asked, and he heard Steve chuckle. 

"From you."

Bucky frowned. There was a memory bubbling under the surface. It popped to life, and he remembered that he'd used to bathe Steve like this, to bring down his fevers, or clean him up during the endless rounds of influenza that hit every winter like clockwork. Steve had been so sick and weak and miserable in those moments, and Bucky...Bucky remembered how he'd always wanted to do something _nice_ for him. He'd cradled Steve's fragile skull in his rough workman's hands, trying to be gentle and rub away the throbbing pain of fever and illness and the inevitability of death. 

And Steve had let out little whimpers and moans that'd set Bucky off. He'd been so ashamed of himself, back then, getting hard when his best friend in the world was so sick. He'd thought there was something wrong with him, like he was some kind of monster. Little did he know.

But today was a different story. They were both healthy, relatively happy, and for some unfathomable reason, Steve wanted him. So Bucky grabbed Steve's hips and tugged him closer, grinding their cocks together. He was hard, had been ever since Steve had started in on his hair. Steve let out a gasp that sounded a bit like a sob.

"You think of me now? When you jerk off by yourself?" Bucky asked, pleased by the hard edge in his voice. He knew Steve got off on it, all this dirty talk and bossing him around. He had no doubts whatsoever about what turned Steve's crank. He just didn't understand why. Why him.

"Yeah, I do, Buck," Steve whispered, his voice lower by at least an octave. "I think about you all the time." 

That was what Bucky couldn't understand. Steve could have anyone. Hell, he could've had Carter back in the day, or that other Carter, the one who was her niece (a fact which, Bucky privately thought, was kind of fucked up). But instead Steve'd gone sweet on Bucky. 

He figured it had something to do with guilt and Steve's martyr complex, but he decided to set that question aside. He could worry about it later.

"You gonna show me?" Bucky asked, caught up in a sudden image of Steve dropping to his knees and blowing him in the shower. They hadn't done that yet. But suddenly he wanted Steve's touch there more than he wanted air.

"Of course," Steve said. "What do you--?"

"On your knees," Bucky said immediately. "You're gonna suck me, you got that? My cock in your mouth. How's that sound?"

Steve nodded right away, cheeks flaming, and Bucky hid his grin. Yeah, Steve definitely got off on being pushed around. No doubt about it. 

"I'm gonna fuck that pretty mouth of yours," Bucky said, keeping up the patter while Steve knelt down. He was eye-level with Bucky's crotch. "You ever done this?"

He knew the answer, but was still oddly relieved when Steve hesitated and then shook his head.

"It's pretty simple, sweetheart. Just go with your instincts. You got great ones. Haven't let me down yet."

And wasn't that the understatement of the year.

He felt the hesitant touch of Steve's mouth, a soft kiss pressed to the head of his dick. Bucky's cock twitched in interest but he kept still. He felt Steve take a tentative lick, and then another, and then he had to sink back against the shower wall. The tiles felt so nice and cool against his back compared to the warm water drumming over him and Steve's hot tongue. He focused on that, instead of the overwhelming urge to thrust forward into Steve's mouth.

He hadn't been wrong about Steve's instincts. The kid was a natural, his licks growing more confident each time. Bucky just about jumped out of his skin when Steve wrapped one of those huge warm mitts around the base of Bucky's cock and then sucked him down. His mouth was so hot and tight. Bucky thwacked his head back against the wall, stunned. No one had sucked him off since 1942. He'd forgotten how good it felt, all silky tongue and moist heat and the thrill of being the focus of that particular kind of attention. 

He sighed in contentment and felt Steve's throat ripple around him as he laughed. A self-satisfied chuckle. 

"You're a cocky bastard, y'know. It's a very unattractive quality."

Steve just hummed, which caused Bucky to make shallow thrusts into his mouth and chase that vibrating sensation. Steve took it like a champ. He sucked Bucky down and even gripped his hips to pull him in closer. He was unpolished, yeah, but made up for any lack in technical skill with eagerness and Steve Rogers' trademarked determination. 

In short, he was goddamned amazing.

"Jesus Christ, doll, you're a great little cocksucker," Bucky said, running his mouth because he couldn't trust himself not to move his hands. He could be gentle with Steve. He could tangle his hands in Steve's dark hair and not pull or thrust too much. He could.

"You have any idea what you do to me, sweetheart? Making me crazy with that mouth of yours. You could sell tickets, _fuck._ " 

He felt his balls drawing up, already too close to spilling in Steve's mouth. He wouldn't do that either. Wouldn't shoot his load down Steve's throat and demand he swallow it. Wouldn't cover his mouth or pinch his nose shut until Steve was forced to choke it back. 

It took everything he had in him, but he pushed Steve away and pulled out of his mouth. Bucky turned and braced himself up against the wall with his stump, desperately working his dick with his remaining hand. It only took a handful of tugs for him to finish, come splattering the wall as he sagged against it. 

He stood there for a moment, and let the hot water wash down over his back. He didn't jump when Steve touched his hip, but it was a near thing. 

Bucky was crying. Fuck, why was he crying? What the hell was the matter with him?

"Bucky?" Steve said. The crazy impulse to turn and bury his face in Steve's neck seized him. Why in the hell would he need to be comforted? He'd just been on the receiving end of a fantastic suck job. What was there to cry about? 

But Steve didn't seem to think anything of Bucky's little mental breakdown. He just tugged Bucky around and wrapped him up in his arms anyway. He held him as Bucky sobbed and trembled.

"It's okay. You're okay. You're safe. You're in Wakanda and it's 2018 and you're safe."

Bucky wrapped his arm around Steve's neck, clutching him tight, and nodded. He knew those things, just like he knew he was a blubbering moron who couldn't get so much as a blowjob without breaking down. His tears turned angry and he clenched his fist. Was he always going to be like this? Would he always be this broken?

Steve kept hugging him, kept talking to him. It kept Bucky grounded. He felt Steve's bearded cheek press against his own. 

"I got you, Buck," he said. "I've got you."

Bucky hoped that it was true. 

***

They managed to make it back to bed before sunrise, but it was a near thing. Steve settled Bucky in bed and flipped the windows to the opaque mode that blocked out all light. It cast the room into perfect darkness. 

The storm had blown itself out and it was raining now, a steady hiss of sound that would help lull them to sleep.

Part of Bucky was loathe to drift off. That redline clock was still counting down, precious moments ticking away until Steve would have to go away again. It seemed like a waste to spend any of their short time together _sleeping_. 

But—but they’d both had so little of this simple sort of comfort, of feeling warm and safe while wrapped up in each others’ arms. Bucky was greedy enough to indulge himself. He shifted back against Steve, who obligingly tucked him closer, hips to hips and back to chest, until Bucky couldn’t tell where he ended and Steve began. He felt the warm puff of Steve’s breath against the back of his neck, and then the soft brush of his lips at the back of his neck. Bucky shivered. 

"Steve?" 

"Hmm?"

“You remember that goddawful winter in…fuck, '37? ‘38?” Bucky asked, not sure what had made him think of it. “You got scarlet fever, and lost the hearing in your right ear?” 

“Yeah,” Steve said, more of a rumble against Bucky’s back than a clear verbal response. “That was 1937. You nursed me through it, like all the other times. Lost your job, though.”

“Wasn’t much of a job, bricklaying in New York in January. Just about froze my balls off every damned day,” Bucky snorted.

“Still,” Steve said, “you lost it because of me.”

Bucky was silent for a moment, thinking. “That was the worst time, wasn’t it?” 

He hated to ask. He was as rock-solid on his memories as he’d ever be. They still came back to him in bits and pieces. He'd get flashes of small details, like the smell of boiled mutton, or the particular twist of his father's smile. He'd pieced together all the big things. Writing it all out in his notebooks had helped: he’d put everything in sequence, and was reasonably sure there wasn’t much of his old life he’d forgotten. But this one kept nagging at him.

“What do you mean? There were…there were a lot of bad times, Buck. Even before the war.”

That made Bucky smile. What a fucking life. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t wanna go painting too rosy a picture of the Great Depression. Still. Standing in a breadline doesn't seem so bad, in retrospect." He waggled the stump of his arm, which made Steve smile against him in the dark. "And at least I knew I was coming home to you.” 

Bucky let that settle over them for a moment, heavy as a cloak. “But…1937. That was the worst time. I thought that you were gonna die. You pulled through the fever but you were still weak as a kitten when they kicked us out of that place in DUMBO. You couldn’t stand, could barely eat anything. You were so skinny you looked like one of those camp survivors after the war.” He sighed. “But I couldn’t get work and we couldn’t afford the rent, so—”

“So we went to a Hooverville.” 

Jesus, just the thought of it made him shiver. They’d lived for two weeks in a tin shack—a lean-to, really, held together with cardboard, corrugated tin, wire, and wishful thinking—on the north shore of the Hudson in the dead of winter. Bucky’d felt like he would never be warm again for the rest of his life, during that winter of '37.

“Hey,” Steve said, carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Steve pressed another kiss to Bucky’s neck, trying to soothe him, and smoothed one hand down his chest to curl against the flat muscles of his abdomen. There was a sudden tension to Steve that made him think there was a reason why this particular memory was still haunting Bucky a whole century later.

“I got sick, right?” Bucky asked.

He heard Steve swallow hard behind him. He slid those big hands up Bucky’s stomach to cup his pecs, drawing him even closer and burying his nose in Bucky’s neck. Bucky took that as a ‘yes’. 

"Scarlet fever. Only time you ever caught a bug from me," Steve admitted, and Bucky bristled against the guilt in his voice. Like Steve had any control over bacterial infections. 

“I remember...I remember the way the wind whistled in off the river and shook the siding. So many damned cracks in that lean-to. It was like living in a sieve that doubled as a icebox. I was sure I was going to die. Never been sick like that. I watched you go through it enough—”

“Bucky, don’t,” Steve pleaded, and that was wrong too, because Steve never flinched from anything. Never begged. Except one time above the Potomac, when he’d laid down his shield and his life to save a man who'd died a long time ago.

Bucky ignored the unspoken request to _let it go_. He couldn't. 

“I got real sick…and then we had enough money for medicine and first month’s rent on that shithole in Bed-Sty. Got us out of the Hooverville. How’d we get it, Stevie?”

He was glad he was asking this in the dark, with Steve curled up warm and real and solid behind him. He was glad he couldn’t see the look on Steve’s face, whether it was guilt or indignation or even anger. They owned each other, body and soul. But that didn’t give Bucky a right to Steve’s secrets. Still, Steve had seen the Winter Soldier’s file. He knew every terrible thing that Bucky had ever done. And this question had gnawed at him for decades.

“I…there was a man,” Steve said slowly, the words drawn out of him like thick molasses. “He paid me.”

“Paid you for what? You could hardly fucking stand!” 

And this was familiar, this hot anger on Steve’s behalf. Much more familiar than the broken note in Steve’s voice, the one that suggested he’d done something Bucky couldn’t forgive him for.

"He paid me for sex, Buck. Pulled me out of a breadline--I looked younger than I really was, remember?--and paid me. Sure paid me a hell of a lot more than I was worth." 

Steve said this flatly, but Bucky caught the disgust in his voice, the defensiveness. Did Steve think he'd be angry with him?

"Fuck, Stevie, I...You never said."

"It's not really the kind of thing a fella tells his best friend. And you were so sick, Buck. You had to get better, whatever it took." 

Bucky turned in Steve's arms and felt for his face in the dark. He cupped Steve's cheek with his good hand. He could feel the velvety fan of Steve's eyelash. No tears. That was good.

He was seized then with an animal fury. His anger wasn't directed at Steve, but against the nameless, faceless asshole who'd turned Steve into a whore.

"What'd he do to you, dollface?" 

Steve sighed, that big chest of his swelling against Bucky's. He pressed closer, further into the heat of Steve's skin. 

"Not sure you want a play-by-play, but... It wasn't good, Buck," Steve said, clearly trying to be as honest as he could. Which, by Captain America standards, was pretty damn honest. "He was rough. And I was still getting over the fever, like you said. It...hurt."

Bucky felt his throat close up, and blinked against the sting of tears. But he refused to cry in front of Steve for a second time. And besides, this wasn't about him. He'd been the catalyst, sure, but...

He remembered his earlier thought, about Steve having been a virgin until they started up together in Wakanda. Not quite true, as it turned out. 

But either way, Steve had sacrificed his own innocence on the polluted altar of J.B. Barnes. Had done for a long, long time. 

He realized then that he'd never be able to convince Steve that he wasn't worth it. Not if Steve could do that. For him.

"I wish I'd known," Bucky said, surprising them both. Steve went so still he was barely breathing. Christ, but he'd carried this secret such a long time he was rigid with it. "I would've, fuck, I don't know what I would've done. Killed that bastard, probably. But I would have - I would have tried to make it up to you, Stevie. I would've made it sweet for you."

"Oh Buck," Steve murmured, gathering him close. "You did. Took you a while, but..."

Bucky pinched him, just a bit, which made Steve squirm. They quieted, each lost in their own thoughts and regrets about the past. Steve was the first one to speak.

"I always thought there was something real wrong with me. How I felt about you. It was like a poison running through my veins, I wanted you so bad. It was all I could think about." He went on, in the gravely-soft voice lovers use when they share their deepest secrets. "I thought, after Erskine's serum...I thought maybe he'd cured me. Peggy helped, too. I was so ashamed of how I felt, what I'd done. And I knew I could never tell you."

"And now?" Bucky asked, not quite trusting his own voice. 

"Well...now I know it's not sick. It's not some poison. People nowadays--well, most people--certainly don't think so. When I found out about gay rights and all the different terms they have for it, it kinda broke me for a while. To know that the whole time I was beating myself up over loving you, it was just how I was wired."

Steve's words caught in Bucky's mind and stuck like the needle in a record groove. _Loving you._ Steve had _loved him_ , back in the '30s and '40s. Loved him even now, after everything. Somehow, impossibly, Steve still loved the whole broken mess of him. 

Maybe it didn't have to make sense. Maybe...maybe it just _was_. Maybe Steve's love for him was like the love of God, mysterious and eternal.

Bucky didn't know what he had to offer anyone. There wasn't much of him left. Nothing of the old Bucky Barnes, anyway, and this new incarnation was just a souped-up Nazi death machine. 

But Steve had made a choice to love him, and to keep loving him. So maybe it wasn't Bucky's place to question. He only had to accept it.

"Til the end, right sweetheart?" 

Steve nodded. "Yeah, Buck."

And that was it. That was everything.

THE END


End file.
